The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  The neurology resident looked up from the chart he was perusing and rushed over to the patient, readying his stethoscope for use. His week on ER rotation had been relatively uneventful, but this seemed like a serious case. Jenna Wilson? He knew her. Well, he knew of her. He'd seen her around the hospital quite a bit since he'd started his residency. She always seemed a hard worker, with a vibrant smile and a “can do” attitude. He had not had a chance to actually talk with her, since it seemed she was always busy—always running from one room to another—but he had definitely noticed her beauty and her charm as she had helped with a few of his patients.

  As he listened to her heart and lungs for himself, he examined her for signs of injury. Her color was pale. There was significant bruising under her eyes and behind her ears, and blood trailed into her reddish blond hair from a gash on her forehead. “What happened?” he asked the paramedic, as he lifted her eyelids and shone a light into her eyes. Nothing.

  “Drove her car off the side of the road into the Hudson River, Doc. Head hit the windshield on impact with the water.”

  The doctor's brow crinkled in surprise. “Let's get a tox screen and call radiology. We're going to need a CT scan of the brain stat.” The doctor's face took on a look of concern as he wrote his orders on her chart. “Any next of kin?”

  “Police ran her vehicle registration. Lives in Midtown—apparently with a Jake Trudeau. They contacted him and told him we were bringing her here.”

  “Good,” the doctor said nodding, all the while still looking at his patient with concern. “Alert the OR,” he said to the nurse. “Depending on what the CT shows, we may need to go in and relieve some pressure.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” the nurse said, as she went to the desk to start scheduling the ordered tests.

  The doctor walked over to the shelf of supplies behind him, pulled on a pair of gloves, and grabbed some antiseptic and gauze. He carefully began to clean the wound on her forehead, assessing the need for stitches. She looked so fragile, so frail, so different from the way she had looked when he had seen her on the floor with patients just earlier today. True, she had seemed maybe a bit under the weather then, but still so full of life compared to this. He reached out and took her hand in his. It was cold through his gloves, yet for some reason, he was compelled to squeeze it gently, as he promised, “We're going to get you better, Miss Wilson. I promise.”

  3 ANGELS OF MERCY

  “Where am I?” The intruder repeated, looking frantically around her. “What is this place? Who… who are you?”

  “Who am I Mademoiselle?” Erik repeated her question with raised eyebrow. “I am the owner of this place so I believe the better question is who are you?”

  “I…” she began, still surveying her surroundings in a panic, “I…Where am I? How did I get here?”

  Erik sighed in exasperation. First the Persian arriving uninvited, and then the wild ravings of this hysterical woman—would this day never cease in its irritations? “You are in my domicile, Mademoiselle, and as to how you accomplished entry, it would be in your best interest if you would quickly enlighten us as to your methods.”

  Omid glanced with incredulity at his friend, and then at the girl, whose eyes merely blinked in utter bewilderment at Erik's statement. Kneeling down, so that he was at eye level with the girl, and taking a deep breath, Omid began. “What my friend was trying to say,” he ignored the disgusted grunt that Erik released at hearing word friend, “is that this is his home, and he was wondering how you managed to get in, since not many can find the entrance unaided.”

  The girl looked down, and took a few deep breaths herself, blinking her eyes several times, as if trying to awaken from some bizarre dream. When she realized her surroundings hadn't changed she began, slowly, “I…I am not entirely sure. I was driving…and it was raining…and I saw lights, and then…” her breathing quickened, and she shut her eyes tightly “The river. Oh God, I drove into the river.” She covered her eyes with her hands and shook her head back and forth.

  With narrowed eyes, Omid sought to confirm what she just said, “You drove a buggy into the Seine?” He suddenly started looking around, and Erik glared at him when he heard the Persian ask, “Where's the horse?”

  The girl looked up and met his gaze as if he were the lunatic. “NO!” her voice raised in consternation, “I drove my Chevy into the Hudson!”

  Erik and Omid's eyes met with guarded expressions. This girl was undoubtedly an escapee from the asylum. It was obvious, simply by her attire—a loose fitting shirt and trousers which were filthy, torn and damp. Her words, however, made it abundantly clear that she was not firmly entrenched in reality. It had not rained in Paris for days and where on earth was the Hudson? It was certainly not in Paris—was it even in France? Women did not drive, and certainly not some strange… thing… called a Chevy. And yet, she did not appear to be a threat of any sort. She looked weak, and helpless, and terrified.

  “Oooooh,” they heard the girl's dismayed groan, as she looked at her trembling hands for the first time, “I'm bleeding.”

  And she was obviously hurt.

  Erik sighed with an irritated huff, and walked over to the girl. “Come,” he said, leaning over to take her hand, “we must tend to your wounds.” Erik pulled on the girl's hand in an effort to help her up, but as she tried to rise, she stumbled, her eyes starting to flutter, and Erik could tell that she was about to fall. “Owww! My ankle,” she moaned loudly, “my head.” Quickly, he reached out to steady her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Realizing that his sitting room was much too far a walk, if merely standing up made her dizzy, Erik grudgingly lifted the girl into his arms, and carried her toward the Louis XVI-style sofa, instructing Omid to grab a throw to toss over it. Silently lamenting to himself that it could not be helped, he placed her wet, grimy person on the settee lengthwise, so that her offending ankle could be elevated.

  He knelt beside her, and examined her head. There was a great deal of blood, but the wound would have to be cleaned before he could tell how bad it was. Judging by her dizziness a few moments prior, he assumed it was at least moderately severe.

  Erik rose and commanded Omid to stay with her as he went to the kitchen to fetch a basin that he filled with soapy water and a sponge. Upon his return, Erik dipped the sponge into the warm soapy water and wiped the girl's brow free of the grime and blood that had so marred it, carefully assessing the severity of the cut as he did so. It was several moments before he realized that his visitor was looking at him intently.

  “Has no one told you that it is rude to stare?” He inquired, not meeting her gaze, but focusing his eyes on the gaping laceration on her head. Now that it was clean, Erik could tell that the cut was not overly large, but would indeed require stitches to heal properly, as it was already beginning to bleed again.

  “I'm sorry, I…” the girl spoke quietly, still staring at him. “I was just looking at your mask.”

  “Daroga,” he called sharply to the Persian who was watching over him intently. “Come, make yourself useful.” When Omid knelt down next to Erik, he noticed a defensive set to Erik's jaw, and Omid knew the girl had done the worst thing she could possibly have done by drawing attention to his mask. Still, Erik put a few pieces of clean linen into the Persian's flustered hand and then pressed his hand to the girl's forehead, looking at Omid, but not the girl. “Now, hold this here and apply pressure to the wound until I return.”

  “I can do that myself,” She protested. “I'm a nurse…”

  “Well then,” Erik said, deciding to simply indulge her delusions to move this process along, “As a nurse, you are aware that we must avoid the risk of infection. And as your hands are still…” his nose wrinkled in disgust, “filthy, you must allow the Persian to do as I instructed. Last I checked,” he added dryly, “He didn't make a habit of biting.”

  Omid glared at Erik as he rose from the floor and exited the room with a huff, but he did as he had been commanded, turning back to the girl an
d offering a sheepish smile. Upon his return, Erik was carrying a needle and a length of thick black thread.

  The girl's eyes widened in fear. “What is that for?” she asked, her voice rising about an octave in pitch.

  “Again, Mademoiselle,” Erik huffed “As a nurse, you must recognize that a wound of such a gaping nature would require closing.”

  If possible, her eyes grew even wider. “And you're going to close it?” she shrieked.

  “Well, I would allow the Persian, but he hates the sight of blood,” Erik returned dryly, glancing at Omid as he pulled the thick black thread through the needle's eye.

  “Wait! You have to sterilize the… “ her voice trailed off as Erik held the tip of the needle in the flame of a candle for a few moments, meeting her eyes.

  “I know,” he said, simply, drawing close to inspect the wound once more. Erik removed the linen Omid had pressed to the wound in his absence. The bleeding had already begun to abate, but the skin still gaped, so Erik readied himself to lay in the first stitch.

  “This will hurt, Mademoiselle,” Erik informed her in a soft tone that might have been meant to be soothing.

  “I know,” she practically whimpered, closing her eyes once again and trying hard not to flinch.

  “Would you at least like some cognac, Mademoiselle?” Omid offered, once again, displaying his maddening familiarity with Erik's belongings. When she nodded, Omid took two glasses from the small wooden liquor cabinet Erik kept and poured some of the deep amber liquid into each of them. He handed one glass to the girl and kept one for himself, immediately tossing his head back and drinking deeply. Erik shook his head back and forth at the Persian's sheer audacity and vowed to add a lock to the cabinet at his first convenience. But he was pleased when the girl also drank, and then placed the glass on the little side table next to the settee. At least that was a good idea on the Persian's part.

  Erik turned his attention back to the wound. As he touched the needle to her skin, he could see her hand squeezing tightly on the arm of the settee and he realized she was trying to remain brave in the face of the pain. As he worked, he tried to engage her in conversation, to distract her from the discomfort.

  “So you never answered my question, Mademoiselle,” he began in a velvety tone.

  “Which one…OW!” She could not suppress a yelp at the sting of the needle. “Was that?”

  “The question of how you got here,” he murmured softly, choosing to overlook her little shriek. “Beyond jumping into the river, that is.” He began to hum quietly as he continued to sew up her wound, waiting for her answer.

  “I…I don't know, exactly,” she answered, only wincing slightly, as he worked. “I remember driving into the river, and then, somehow, suddenly I was walking in this… tunnel? I don't know…it was dark. And at the end of the tunnel, there was a… door.” She opened her eyes once more and looked at him. “When I walked through the door, I was there by the lake, where you found me. I heard the door slam behind me, but when I turned to go back, I tripped and twisted my ankle, and that's when you came.”

  Erik looked at her silently a moment longer. “You walked through a door right there, by the lake?”

  “Yes. The one right behind where you found me.”

  “Hmmm,” Erik responded, assessing her answer. “And how far did you walk before you tripped?”

  “I had only walked about two or three steps away from the door before I heard it slam.” She watched him nod silently before asking him, “Why?”

  “Well, because, Mademoiselle,” Erik told her, calmly trying to keep his voice velvety soft, “in the precise location where we found you, there is no door.”

  “It has been a long time since I have seen you act as an Angel of Mercy, Erik,” Omid spoke quietly, as Erik washed his hands. Omid had been enthralled by Erik's ministrations to the girl, who was now resting, comfortably on the settee. It reminded him so much of when Erik had cared for his own poor Aziz before he had succumbed to the illness which had first claimed his mother.

  “I would greatly appreciate it if you kept this to yourself,” Erik said, drying his hands with a kitchen towel. “I have a reputation to uphold as the Angel of Death.”

  The Persian chuckled a little at Erik's ever-present sarcasm, while his manner had displayed such care for his patient. “Where did you learn such skills?”

  “I have always had to care for myself, Daroga,” he said, replacing the towel on the hook above the counter. “Certainly there has never been anyone willing to tend my wounds.”

  Omid looked at the back of his friend's head in sincere regret for the cruelty and loneliness that had filled Erik's life and driven him to such a solitary existence. Were he simply shown a bit of kindness in the face of his bizarre disfigurement, the gifts he could have bestowed upon the world were many. But time and time again, he had been confronted with man's great inhumanity. Erik had been abused, and then coerced into heaping abuse upon others. It was rare that he was ever given the opportunity to treat another human being with kindness—but apparently he had not lost the capacity. “Have you yet to discern her name, Erik?” he asked, seriously.

  “No,” Erik answered, in a low voice, “but I persist in my belief that she is an escapee from the asylum.”

  “Shall we return her?”

  “And have her chained to the wall, beaten, and nearly starved?” Erik asked, cynically, turning to face Omid. “I know of the methods by which the insane are treated as well as the conditions in which they are kept. I would not subject a rabid animal to such cruelty, much less a confused girl. Does she look that dangerous to you?”

  “Well, no, but what shall we do with her?” Omid asked, confused.

  “We shall do nothing, Daroga,” Erik asserted. “I shall allow her to convalesce on my settee until such time that I can decide the best course of action.”

  Omid smirked. “Maybe she can dance! Madame Giry is always looking for new ballet rats. Didn't you say they got a new arrival just today?”

  Erik was reminded of the ethereal beauty he had spied in the chapel—so alone, so afraid. How he wished he could see her again. How he longed to stroke her cheek and whisper to her that she was not alone—that he was with her. But no—it was not for monsters to commune with angels. He was destined to be eternally alone.

  As the thought entered Erik's mind, a rueful smirk spread across his face, for at the moment, he was not alone. No, presently, he was burdened with an annoying Daroga in his kitchen and an unidentified mental patient on his sofa. He sighed and shook his head, wondering what he did to deserve this day.

  “Has anyone come to see Miss Wilson yet?” the doctor asked a passing nurse, as he tied off the last of his patient's stitches and applied gauze to cover the wound. The CT scan results were not as severe as he had feared, and he was hopeful that Jenna would wake soon. There appeared to be no reason for pressure-relieving surgery, so he placed the stitches to close her wound. He had been certain that by the time he was done, there would be a frantic boyfriend begging to see her. In truth, he had hoped for it—it was widely believed that coma patients were aware of what was happening to them on some level, and sometimes it was the voice of a loved one, or a comforting touch, that was that final push they needed to be coaxed awake.

  “No, Doctor,” the nurse informed him. “When we tried to call upon her admission, the boyfriend asked about her condition and said that he'd stop by in the morning—that he has early shift anyway.”

  The doctor was taken aback, by what seemed to be a rather callous way to feel about a woman with whom one resided. But instead, he simply asked the nurse, “Oh, does he work here too?”

  “Yeah, he's a physical therapist. That's how they met. Of course, if you ask me, he's a little too friendly with all the nurses, if you know what I mean.”

  The doctor's eyes narrowed and he nodded. “I see. Thank you, Maxine.”

  “You're welcome.” She left with a smile.

  The doctor turned back to his
patient and gazed at her quietly for a few moments longer. With her wound cleaned and dressed, she looked much better than she had when she came in, but she was still so frail and so…alone. It was 7 a.m., the end of his shift, and he was exhausted. He had to work again that night, so he knew he needed to get home and get some sleep, but a part of him did not want to leave her there with no one on her side.

  He reached out and took her hand again in his. “I have to go home now, Miss Wilson. But I promise I'll come see you later. By that time, I bet you'll be in a room of your own. You rest, and work real hard on waking up for me, alright?” He smiled at her, even though her eyes were closed, and squeezed her hand once before leaving her side.

  4 WHAT IS THIS PLACE

  Jenna's head was swimming. A voice was saying her name, and there was pressure on her hand. Unfocused light and colors floated before her eyes—blues, browns and greens—too blurry for her to distinguish. She was close enough that if she just reached out, she could almost touch…

  Her eyes fluttered open at the call of a song, and she was in yet another dream world, but this one was in focus. The warm glow of candlelight danced all around her, casting soft shadows on cold stone walls and rich wooden furniture. She was lying on an old fashioned couch in some type of fancy parlor, a soft throw draped over her legs. The floor was covered with a Persian style rug, richly patterned in red and black and gold. Before her, a stone hearth, filled with warm, dancing flames, was flanked on the left by a small dining table, with four chairs, and on the right by a tall bookcase, just bursting with hardback volumes and stacks of loose paper. A rich burgundy leather reading chair sat between the bookshelf and the settee, and a black grand piano presided over the other half of the room. Seated at it, playing a lush, rich melody, was a man.